11. Becca
Becca
I sit on the edge of the guest bed in Clive’s west wing, my hands trembling slightly as I listen to the commotion from upstairs—raised voices, Jack’s angry protests, and the firm, professional responses of Clive’s security team.
“You can’t just throw us out! This is our family home, too!” Kay’s voice rises, shrill with indignation.
“Ma’am, Mr. Bishop has instructed us to escort you and your son from the premises,” a security guard calmly replies.
Jack’s voice follows, slurred and hostile. “Tell that bastard I’m not finished with him! Or her!”
I wince at the venom in his voice. Last night’s disaster still feels raw—Jack’s decision to ditch the proposal and ask that I financially support him instead. The humiliation stings, but what hurts more is how long I’ve wasted trying to please someone who never truly loved me.
Heavy footsteps move across the foyer – Clive’s security team, no doubt. They’re discreet but efficient, former military guys with earpieces and polite but unyielding demeanors. More shouting from Jack, something about “embarrassing him” and “ruining everything,” then Kay’s high-pitched complaints about “our agreement” and “that girl.”
That girl. Me.
I stay frozen until I hear car doors slam and engines start. Only when the sound of tires on gravel fades does my heartbeat begin to slow. I count to sixty, then rise from my awkward position on the cool tile floor.
The house feels different with them gone – lighter somehow. I pad barefoot down the sweeping staircase, the Mexican limestone cool beneath my feet. The Cozumel house has always been my favorite of Clive’s properties, with its open design embracing the turquoise sea just beyond the infinity pool.
He turns at my approach, his blue eyes softening when they meet mine. “They’re gone,” he says simply.
“I heard,” I reply, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “That was... intense.”
Clive’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Kay never did know how to make a quiet exit.” He studies me for a moment. “Are you okay?”
I consider the question. Am I okay? The relationship I’ve invested five years in just imploded spectacularly. I should be devastated. Instead, I feel oddly... liberated.
“I think I am,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “Or I will be. What happens now?
“That depends.” Clive leans against the counter, studying me. “What do you want to do, Becca? I can have my team arrange a flight home whenever you’re ready. Or you can stay here with me.”
The question catches me off guard. What do I want? No one ever asks me that.
“I’m not ready to go home yet. I think I’d like to stay.”
Clive nods, then gestures toward the expanse of ocean visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Well, we have the rest of the week. The boat’s ready, the weather’s perfect. What would you like to do, Rebecca?”
The way he says my name—like it matters, like I matter—makes something flutter in my chest. For once, someone asks me what I want instead of telling me.
“I’d like to go snorkeling,” I blurt out. “If you’d still like to take me.”
Something flashes in Clive’s eyes—surprise, maybe even approval.
“Snorkeling it is,” he says with a genuine smile. “The boat’s ready whenever you are.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing on the back deck in my white bikini, a sarong tied around my waist. I feel strangely vulnerable yet liberated. Jack constantly critiques my swimwear—it’s too modest, not modest enough, and the wrong color for my complexion. But when Clive looks at me, his gaze is appreciative but respectful, and I feel beautiful for the first time in years.
You look...” Clive’s voice trails off as his eyes sweep over me, and a warm flush spreads across my skin.
“Pale?” I offer, suddenly self-conscious.
He shakes his head, his expression serious. “Radiant.”
The simple word steals my breath away. I’ve heard a thousand compliments from Jack over the years, each one calculated to get something in return. Clive’s single word feels different—honest.
“Ready?” Clive asks, his voice deeper than usual. He’s changed into navy swim trunks that contrast with his tanned skin, and I have to force myself not to stare at the broad expanse of his chest.
“Ready,” I confirm, slipping on my sunglasses to hide the blush I can feel warming my cheeks.
“The boat’s this way,” he says, offering his hand.
I take it, surprised by the warmth of his palm against mine. His fingers are strong but gentle as he leads me down the path to the private dock where a sleek vessel awaits. It’s not the massive yacht I expected, but perfect for exploring the reef.
“You captain this yourself?” I ask as he helps me aboard.
“Some things shouldn’t be delegated.” He grins, suddenly looking younger and more carefree than I’ve ever seen him.
The engine purrs to life, and soon, we’re skimming across the water, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy. I laugh, abandoning any hope of maintaining my usual polished appearance. Clive glances over, his smile widening at my windblown state.
“You should laugh more often,” he calls over the engine’s roar. “It suits you.”
Twenty minutes later, he cuts the engine in a secluded cove. The water here is impossibly clear, revealing coral formations in a rainbow of colors below us.
“This is my favorite spot,” Clive says, dropping anchor. “The reef here is pristine. Not many tourists know about it.”
He helps me with my snorkel gear, his fingers lingering perhaps a second longer than necessary as he adjusts my mask. I’m hyperaware of his proximity, of the scent of his skin mingling with salt air.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly nervous. I’ve always been a strong swimmer, but something about being here with him makes me feel like I’m venturing into uncharted waters in more ways than one.
We slip into the ocean together. The water is perfect—cool enough to refresh but warm enough to welcome. Beneath the surface, a new world reveals itself. Schools of tropical fish dart between coral formations, their colors almost surreal in their vibrancy.
Clive points out different species, guiding me toward a spectacular coral formation. When a sea turtle glides past us, I gasp into my snorkel, reaching instinctively for his arm. He takes my hand instead, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
We stay like that, hand in hand, floating in this underwater paradise. I’m acutely aware of how right it feels, his large hand enveloping mine as we drift with the gentle current. The turtle circles back, curious about us, and I feel a childlike wonder bubble up inside me.
When we finally surface, I’m breathless with more than just physical exertion. Clive’s eyes meet mine, water droplets clinging to his lashes, and I feel something shift between us—profound and undeniable.
“That was incredible,” I say, treading water.
“It never gets old,” he replies, his voice soft. “No matter how many times I come here.”
We swim back to the boat, and Clive hoists himself effortlessly before extending his hand to help me. As I climb aboard, I’m suddenly aware of how close we are, water streaming down our bodies, the space between us charged with something I’m afraid to name.
He wraps a towel around my shoulders, his fingers brushing my collarbone. “You’re shivering,” he observes.
“I’m not cold,” I admit, surprising myself with my honesty.
His eyes darken slightly, but he steps back, maintaining a respectful distance. “Hungry?” he asks, moving toward a cooler I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Starving, actually,” I confess.
We settle on the cushioned seats at the stern with a simple but perfect lunch—fresh fruit, artisan cheeses, crusty bread, and chilled white wine. “You’re a natural in the water,” he comments, uncorking the wine. “Most people don’t venture that far from the boat their first time.”
“I’ve always loved swimming,” I admit, accepting the glass he offers. “My parents had a summer house in the Hamptons with a pool, but I preferred the ocean. My nanny used to say I was part mermaid.”
“I can see that.” His eyes linger on me, and I feel that flutter again. “You looked... free out there.”
The word catches me. Free. Is that what this feeling is? This lightness in my chest? “I did feel free,” I say softly. “I think maybe I haven’t for a very long time.”
Conversation flows easily between us in a way it never did with Jack. Clive listens—really listens—asking thoughtful questions about my event planning business, dreams, and opinions.
“Why did you stay with him so long?” he asks suddenly, his expression serious.
The directness of the question catches me off guard, but I don’t mind. “I think... I got comfortable with the familiar. Even when the familiar wasn’t good for me.” I take a sip of wine, gathering courage. “And I wanted to check that box—marriage, family, the whole package. I thought Jack was my last chance.”
Clive’s laugh is gentle but incredulous. “Rebecca, you’re twenty-eight, brilliant, and beautiful. Jack wasn’t your last chance. He wasn’t even a good chance.”
The afternoon stretches into a golden haze as we talk and laugh. Clive tells me about building his security empire from nothing, his childhood in Boston, and his passion for marine conservation. I share stories about my most disastrous events, my college adventures, and my secret dream of writing a novel someday.
When the sun begins its descent, Clive reluctantly starts the engine.
“We should head back before it gets dark,” he says, though he sounds as reluctant as I feel to end this perfect day.
The boat cuts through the water, slower now, as if Clive, too, wants to prolong our time together. I lean back, letting the wind caress my face, my eyes closed against the setting sun. For the first time in years, I feel present—truly present in this moment rather than worrying about the next checklist item in my carefully planned life.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Clive says, his voice carrying over the gentle hum of the engine.
I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze warm and curious. “I was just thinking that I can’t remember the last time I felt this... content.”
His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my heart skip. “Good. You deserve contentment, Rebecca. And a lot more.”
The shoreline approaches too quickly, his private dock illuminated by soft lights that have automatically switched on at dusk. With practiced ease, Clive guides the boat into its berth, cuts the engine, and secures the vessel.
“Need a hand?” he asks, extending his arm to help me onto the dock.
I take it, but my foot catches on the edge as I step from the boat. I stumble forward with a small gasp, falling directly into Clive’s chest. His arms encircle me instinctively, steadying me against him. For a moment, we stand frozen, my palms flat against his still-damp skin, his hands at my waist.
“Sorry,” I whisper, though I make no move to step away.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs, his voice deeper than before. His eyes search mine, asking a question he doesn’t voice.
The air between us crackles with possibility. I should step back. I should thank him politely for a lovely day and retreat to my guest room to sort through the emotional wreckage of my relationship. I should do anything but what I’m actually doing—rising onto my tiptoes, my face tilting toward his.
Clive hesitates, his breath warm against my lips. “Becca,” he says, my name a warning and a plea.
“I know,” I finish for him. “We shouldn’t lose our heads.”
His expression changes suddenly—restraint melting into a determined hunger. His hand grips my cheek, thumb tracing firmly across my lower lip. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. It won’t happen again.”
My heart slowly sinks, but I can’t forget this has nowhere to go.